So…I can fish, I used to be able to shoot pretty straight, just at clay pigeons, I can wrangle a horse and start a good safe campfire when weather allows. I can get a tick out safely as possible, and have been known to put a screaming injured rabbit out of it’s misery. In short. I am not much of a princess. I never wear nail polish, you might catch me in eyeliner, but that is it. My hair is ultra short and going unreasonably grey at the sides in a manner which is not fetching at all, yet can’t quite be bothered to do anything about it. All this said, and all those years on the road, I am most comfortable in the city. I have found my city, San Francisco, and I love it here. I love the fact I can walk to anything I need to do, eat or see. I love the people and the weather and the hot water out of the faucets. As much as I tried to hide from it, I am a city girl. If I get claustrophobic, I climb to the nearest hill, and look out over the sea to the east bay. Life isn’t so cramped out there. You can see hills from San Franciscan hills, and I appreciate it. It feels more open.
I have never looked to be looked after, it leaves me cold. I don’t want to be babied. I am not good with dealing with fluffier women than me who enjoy that kind of life. It just isn’t me. I am a control freak and at this point, I am happy to admit I’d rather do things myself and that is that. It’s ok. I don’t have anyone to irritate. I’m just set in my ways…which is why I think I’ll never date again.
My friends keep telling me I should dip my toe into the water and date, but I am not interested in men, and all my kind of women – nice butch dykes – are busy being They Them, or else Him, and it leaves me cold. I have accepted it. I am alone from here to the end. I had a good run. My teens and twenties were promiscuous and wild, occasionally awful and desperate, but the soul destroying reality of sex work when you are a junkie is not something sex positive modern feminism really wants to acknowledge. My thirties were quieter, I was mainly married. On the occasions I tried to pry myself out of the marriage – (only to be thrown back by the Hague Convention rules on parents not being allowed to leave the country of habitual residence, and being stuck totally in Japan), I would be mainly preoccupied with little kids and trying to stay one step ahead of Pig. I mainly failed, until I didn’t and did something really brave – I ran, and I hid and I camped for five years, helped by my oldest friend, a much older man, who I had known for almost all of my adult life. He fell off the wagon, got a brain tumor, and became…weirdly nasty.
So here I am, and I feel cheated. I feel cheated out of love, but I can’t get the enthusiasm up to do anything about it. It is a period that has passed, and I am ok with it. I feel like I want to work on my writing, I want a career, heck I NEED some money and to move out of the shelter and into an apartment with The Boy. I need a boost, to feel like I am more than just a very grateful mother to a very lovely son, I want to feel like I can provide better, that I can spoil him when he has put up with some much deprivation and difficulty to stay with me. He tells me often how much he appreciates me, how glad he is that we are together. I’m blessed. I just hope I can do better for him.